


The one who flew over the cuckoo's nest

by Istilldontcareaboutmyname



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Also prostitution and alcoholism, Creature Stan Pines, Hopefully it's not that bad, I tried writing something horror-like, Mentioned suicide, Multiple personalities taken to the next level, No specified time-period, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Stan Pines-centric, Vague(?) body horror, Young Stan and Ford Pines, and killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Istilldontcareaboutmyname/pseuds/Istilldontcareaboutmyname
Summary: There was something off about Stan. It lurked in the shadows and only came out at night, but it began to take over him the moment he got kicked out of the house. And now, years later, he has to ask his brother to help if he wants to remain in control.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Stan Pines & Original Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	The one who flew over the cuckoo's nest

**Author's Note:**

> The OC that wants to take over Stan is called Lucifer, and her main role is to watch over beings that try to enter different dimensions, having the ability to crush them if the Fates deem them finished. These powers are also explained near the end of the fic too. 
> 
> I imagine this version of Stan to look like a brown-haired version of Simon Baker.  
> Also, this is what you get when I get hooked to listening to "R.I.P. 2 my youth" on repeat. Really recommend it.

Sometimes, he dreams of a mist encompassing everything. It stretches across an endless dark space, galaxies sometimes shining through, like small jewels. Most of the time, the mist is calm, moving along to a non-existent breeze. However, there are times when it rushes towards one of the gems, almost in a maddened frenzy, destroying them in mere minutes. 

He doesn’t pay a lot of attention to those dreams in the beginning. He has Ford to worry over and treasures to find. And even when it feels like he’s breaking apart into the mist, his brother is there to distract him. 

* * *

As they grow older, they grow apart and his dreams become scarier. Glowing blue eyes staring at him from the dark corners of the room, clawed hands dragging him under water, that seemed to fill up his lungs under seconds. 

Sometimes, his reflection stares back at him, smile full of jagged teeth that resembles a bloodthirsty shark. There’s a woman whispering in his ear, voice raw and broken, telling him how easily he’d be able to crush everyone around him. Most of the time, he ignores her, but he still catches his hands going to tight on Carla’s pretty little neck. 

But Ford keeps her away. His hands don’t move to hammer a nail into his head and he thanks every god out there when his too-smart for his own good brother doesn’t notice his sighs of relief.

* * *

After he’s kicked out, he tries to become successful by conning people. He has the potential to get good at it, but right now, he’s desperate and has no time to learn. And the voice only gets stronger, something lurking at the edge of his vision.

He tries again and again to start his own business, but only manages to get banned from various states. Three years down the road, he gives up. After that, every memory has the golden tint of beer bottles, with the added favour of cheap whiskey and tequila. He bounces from bar to bar, from one dangerous situation to another, with the world spinning around him and the woman laughing just outside of his peripheral vision. And what if he hits too hard and stabs where it would be fatal? He has no one to tell him he did something wrong. 

* * *

He stops at a random beach when his hands begin to flake away, purple mist filling up the car. She’s quiet for now and there’s a bottle of unopened scotch in the trunk that will make sure the bitch stays away and he’ll remain whole. 

His knees give out and he nearly swallows sand, almost spilling his drink. Cursing, he rolls to his back, glancing down to see his feet disappear. 

“Fuck you and your timing,” the nearby seagulls flee in terror and Stan only shoots them a middle finger, staring up at the stars. “Man, if you could see me now, Sixer. Maybe now I’m really living up to your expectations.”

* * *

Martha is such a pretty woman. Shame she chose the wrong thing and lost her chance of becoming a doctor. Well, this version of her at least. Stan’s certain, somehow, that she’d be dead in a ditch if he had not picked her up, with her twins waiting in vain for their mother to return. But she should have gone with the blue dress. It would have made her eyes pop. And fear clouding them would have made her eyes so much prettier too, her neck purpling with the marks his hands left there. 

Instead, he grips the bedsheets next to her head, wincing when the cheap fabric rips under the pressure. 

* * *

“Thank you, Steve,” she smiles up at him when he gives her a hundred, and he only nods, heading for the crappy en suite. “And your eyes are beautiful!” 

She’s gone before he can fully turn towards her, the motel door closed. He almost falls over in his rush to the bathroom, slipping on the still-wet tiles. Purple. His eyes are purple. 

_What?_ The bitch laughs, hands snaking onto his shoulders, nails long and dark from residual blood. _You always compare yourself to your brother who threw you away like a broken toy. So I helped you out._

“No, no, no…” he scrambles to his razor, hands shaking and vision cloudy. He needed to get rid of this. This was unnatural. Not normal. Something to be hidden and kept secret. Almost a disappointment. 

_Oh, poor Stanley. You are not a disappointment. You are just the stupid muscle that disappears from the heroes side by season two. Not a disappointment, just useless. Something the smart little hero can live without._

* * *

His wrists are healed and his eyes are back, and still purple, the next morning. Maybe he had a manic episode after Martha left? Most likely. It’s still a better explanation than having mysterious healing abilities. The bitch just laughs, and he rushes to pack his bag and leave. Colombia sounds like heaven on Earth right now. Nevermind that he nearly crashes his car when a striped cat smiles at him with human teeth when he’s leaving the motels parking lot. 

* * *

Stan has to trample the urge to beat up Rico, but he’d get in trouble with the cartel. He nods when they address him and pretends he doesn’t understand their rapid-fire Spanish, insulting everything about him. Hal Forrester was a patient man who always had his sunglasses on, so he had to take it in. He’s only looking for work that will allow him to let his anger out, after all. 

* * *

There’s a hole in the headrest of the driver’s seat with a bloodied bullet stuck into it. He can’t write the healing off anymore. He drives back in a daze, eyes sometimes glowing blue in the rear-view mirror. After four years in Colombia, he needed to move on. To get away from the monster taking over him and the smiling cat watching him from the distance.

It feels like there are bugs crawling under his skin, his body ill-fitting and awkward. Hissing when his nails dig into his palms, too long and sharp to be human. Even his teeth were wrong, too sharp and not small enough to fit in his mouth properly. 

He snarls out his report to Rico and goes back to his car, shooting Jorge between the eyes on the way out. The bitch is howling, egging him on, and he might have also laughed along with her while he was driving away.

* * *

The phone nearly slips out of his bloodied hands, and he curses in a language he doesn’t remember learning. He leans a hand against the glass of the booth and yells when it goes through, arm separating from the rest of his body. Ford better pick up. 

“Stanford Pines’ residence, this is Fiddleford McGucket speaking.” 

“Damn..you sound too ugly to be a secretary,” he tells the man, finally managing to reattach his arm. “Is my brother around or do I need to leave a message?”

“Who is this?”

“Stanley Pines. Twin brother and family disappointment. I’m in a bit of a pickle and need his expertise to help me out.” He falls against the glass when one of his legs disappears, wishing Fiddleford would hurry up already. He has a kid back home waiting for him and his wife is getting suspicious of all the time he spends with Ford. But this version of her is not decisive enough to leave him. 

“How would a scientist help you out?” 

“With his knowledge of the supernatural.” That gets a reaction out of the other one, and he rushes to get his brother.

“Stanley?”

“Look who's balls decided to finally drop! Hey, Sixer. Been a while. Heard you started looking for weird stuff up in Oregon.” 

“Can I help you, Stanley, or can I finally hang up?” His brother nearly growls out and Stan lets out a humourless chuckle. 

“Just answer my question. Can someone possessed know about it while it’s happening or only when the sons-of-bitches are finally finished?” 

“What did you do?” 

“Shit if I know, most likely get pushed out fifteen minutes after you.” Now he lets out a proper growl, this time in frustration, and Stan flips off the cat, but it only laughs back. “But my problem is most likely mental and not religious.” 

“And why didn’t you ask a psychiatrist to help you then?” 

“They can’t exactly help when you recover from a bullet through your head.”

“A...bullet? STAN!” 

“Chill, Pointdexter. I’m still here. And that’s the scary part. I got up after a blade to the wrists, head-shot, stab to the heart and many more. And all it did was make the bitch laughing in my head more tangible.” 

“Could we...meet up?” His brother sounds like he’s in pain by just asking.

“Yeah. Oregon, Gravity Falls, right?”

“How do you know?!” 

“The bitch in my head. And tell your little assistant that his wife thinks you two are having an affair.” He hangs up while Ford starts spluttering, sliding down onto the blood-covered floor of the booth. He can do this. His brother will help him, even if he still hates him for that fuck-up. 

* * *

He looms over his brother, and seeing them side-by-side in the mirror finally beats in the reality that he’s changed. They haven’t seen each other in nearly nine years and it really shows how much they grew apart. 

Fiddleford tries his hardest to smooth things out between them, but Stan’s way past caring. He’s been awake for what seems like weeks now and he can’t remember the last time he ate. 

“Nice crib. Very rustic.” He stares at the dinosaur skull in what appears to be the living room. “Although I never knew you could build entire rooms out of research papers.”

Both of them bristle and Stan slumps into the freshly located couch. It has a couple of springs lose, but it’s still better than the back of his car. 

“I have an idea, but I’m not sure how safe it’ll be.” Ford starts speaking, glaring at him when he puts his legs on the table.

* * *

The beach of his childhood greets them, drained from all colour. The Diablo is parked near the pier and the Stan-o-war sways softly in the waves. There’s also a bunker ahead of them, and Ford is pretty sure that did not in real life. 

A cat runs by them, going for the bunker, and Ford, remembering his brother's comment about a feline following him, chases it. They end up in an almost too bright, sterile hallway, a strange mist covering the ground, emanating from the only door there.

“Are you sure this is safe?”

“I don't know.”

Just as he says it, the door slams shut behind him, separating him from Fiddleford. There’s a chain rattling in one of the dark corners of the room, and a woman with matted purple hair and oozing wounds appears from there. She walks up to the middle of the room, dragging a chair behind her, the sound grating in the unnatural silence of the room.

“Stanford Pines...the man I can thank for my freedom.” She turns towards him, purple eyes full of malice. She’s sitting on that chair like a queen on her throne, a demented smile painted onto her face. 

“When did you enter my brother's mind? And what do you want?” 

“One. I never entered. I was here since birth. Whispering sweet nothings about death and torture into his ears while he pretended everything was alright. Telling him how much of a fuckup he really was. And two, chaos. I want chaos.”

“That can't be possible. I would have noticed.”

“And yet, you didn't. Every single night, while you were sleeping peacefully, he was just laying there, frozen in terror, solidifying the fact that he was not worthy enough.” 

“You're lying. He was wanted. He just threw everything away. He ruined us because he refused to grow up.” Her laughter is sudden and horrifying. It doesn't sound like just one woman laughing, and he’s pretty sure he can hear Stan screaming between the voices surrounding him.

“ _Refused to grow up?!_ ” She mocks him, mouth stretched into a grotesque smile, showing of off-white fangs dirty with old blood. “He needed you Sixer! You kept me at bay! Don't you get it, Fordsy? He needed you to keep him sane, but you pushed him away. Straight into my arms.” 

“No...” 

“Yes. You chased him away. Drove home the notion that he was worthless and destroyed his mental walls. After that, it was all too easy for me to pick up the pieces, slowly stripping him from all remnants of humanity. You would be surprised how much someone can miss death.” 

“Miss...death?” 

“You know how the story goes. Boy gets kicked out. Boy feels like a failure, so he starts drinking. Boy gets a weapon or ends up on a bridge. And then the boy jumps. Easy as that. I just took away from him.”

“Why are you doing this?!”

“I'm just playing with him, Fordsy. Breaking him like the good little toy he is. I'm going to ride this body like it's my last day on Earth, running him dry and making him watch as his own hands destroy the world. Day by day, piece by piece, I'll break him down until there's nothing left of your dear little brother but an empty husk with a thirst for death.” 

“No. No. You can't do that.”

“Yes, I can. And I will. After all, Stanford Pines, you should know the best.” She holds out her hand, blue sparks surrounding it. “Some things just want to watch the world burn.” Something must snap inside her, because she’s jumping at him, hands turning into claws. Before she can reach him, there’s something yanking him out of the room. 

* * *

“That damn cat, it talks.” He tells the geeks when they’re finally back from his head. Ford looks shaken, he most likely met the bitch, but he still focuses on him, eyes wide. “It told me what I need to do if I want to get rid of the bitch forever.”

“Are you certain it’s safe? We could try other options!” 

“And I’d be battling her until one day she finally overpowers me. And then, we’ll release a bloodthirsty thing that lacks empathy and thrives on killing!” 

* * *

_“Care to dance, Stanley Pines?”_ He stares up at a woman with almost white skin, her hair and dress made up from multicoloured mist. Her eyes are the same shade of purple as his and her smile is similar to that damned cat’s. Stan clambers to his feet, dusting off his pants and takes her hand, raising it to his lips. His Ma did not raise a rude man.

“Certainly, my lady,” she laughs, and it’s like the wind blowing through the trees. They spin around the cave Ford had told him about, and in a weird, twisted way, it feels like he's dancing with himself. 

_“We’re sorry this happened to us, Stanley.”_

“Yeah, I can feel it. How come I ended up with her?” 

“ _Seems like our system was flawed. She was the closest death near our birth, so she got to become our guide._ ” He hums, absent-mindedly watching as her dress disintegrated and rebuilt itself with every step. “ _As an apology, we want to help out. We’ll remove her, and help you instead._ ” 

“I’d like that. Can we start now? With an explanation?” 

“ _Certainly. We are, essentially, the gatekeeper of dimensions. We follow the rules set by the Fates, keeping an eye on who enters a dimension both from the outside,_ ” she steps away and Stan pulls her back, their waltz suddenly turning into a tango, “ _and the inside. This means every dimension has one of us, with enough power to maintain the order. As it stands, our brother is about to cross several of them._ ” 

“Can I stop it? Before I have to do anything drastic?” 

“ _Certainly. The Fates would have intervened already._ ” 

“Awesome. Do you have any idea where I learned to dance like this?”

“ _We always know, that’s all we can tell. Just like how we understood Spanish when we were in Colombia._ ” 

“I should get back soon, don’t you think?” She just smiles at him and begins fading away, just as the colour starts to return to the world around him. He dips her, one last time, laughing along with her. 

* * *

“What do you know about the Gatekeeper?” He asks Bill when he finally falls unconscious, exhausting himself with worrying. His friend freezes, eye going through multiple symbols, before fully turning towards Ford. 

“That's just a sentient cloud who thinks high and mighty of itself.” His voice is overly cheerful, but Ford was still reeling from his encounter. “Don't worry about it. It talks big game, but it can't do much.” 

“Right...shall we continue?” He asks again, pretending that everything was alright and he will not have nightmares of that woman tearing through them like a child through paper.

* * *

The next day, there's an earthquake and the unshakable feeling of fear washes over him, strong enough for his knees to buckle and make him beg for his mother. Fiddleford breaks down crying, lunging at the door to run away. 

The feeling lasts for what feels like years knocking the breath out of him, then it disappears without a trace, leaving them reeling and running out of the lab so they can feel fresh air again.

Hours later, one of the alarms goes off. There's a tall figure moving out of the shade of the woods, and they rush out, weapons drawn. 

“Heya, Pointdexter.”


End file.
